Vestiges of the Mask
by Zaedah
Summary: For the briefest moment, he had stopped, which was always when the demons clawed out into the present, the now.
1. Chapter 1

Somewhere within season three…

**Vestiges of the Mask**

This wasn't supposed to happen. The Doctor, destroyer of worlds, the oncoming storm, the last of his kind, was thoroughly seduced. He wasn't entirely unaware as it began, but he so wanted to forget. And Martha whispered her skills so passionately he couldn't stop himself. Her hands on him, coaxing him into returning what she offered, pulled at more than his body. He just wanted to forget.

His Rose. Out of reach in the one place the Time Lord couldn't go. Her loss threatened to overtake his sanity. Why it overwhelmed him so on this night he couldn't say, but even the stars failed to console him. For the briefest moment, he had stopped, which was always when the demons clawed out into the present, the now. Darkness was no stranger. Had it not surrounded him all his life? But now there was nothing to pull him from its grasp. There used to be a smile, a hand in his that calmed the beasts inside before they escaped. Even now his beloved Tardis tried to calm the despair edging closer to the surface, begging him to fight, to remember. But the pain chose to consume him this night. And somehow, Martha chose to find him.

Normally he could force a cloud of neutrality to coat his skin, to cover the pain. Such a useful tool he'd perfected over the centuries, enough to almost fool himself. Certainly Martha always seemed content with his assurances that all was well. They rarely spoke of the one before, though he knew she knew; that one was special. That one she could never replace. Never be.

But Martha was here, now. And the Doctor's mask, the one he used with such ease, even with Rose, faltered. It was just too hard to summon. And then he felt Martha's hands on his face, trying to read him. He closed his eyes to her sympathy, not wanting to see her concern. Just leave me, he silently begged. Why did he always choose companions who don't listen?

When she kissed him, he froze. When she moved closer, he backed away. But she was persistent, this one. She would take it away, she promised. Let me, let me, she pleaded. Flesh under his fingers felt like water to the parched as her tongue toyed with his. How they ended up in her room, he didn't recall. She must have led them, because he had no idea which she had chosen that first day. And he so rarely used his, he doubted he could find it. Clothes began to pile up on her floor. Hands grew bolder. Before he could decide to alter this course, he was inside her, engulfed by the fire of her body. And Martha was as good as her word. The rhythm of sex, the friction and heat of their joining, the concentration on nothing but pleasure worked on his mind. For the moment, he forgot the pain, the loss, the darkness. In that moment, there was only this. And all that conspired against him settled in that flick of a moment.

DRWHO

Martha woke alone. Not surprisingly. And she refused to dwell on it, not when her body was so deliciously sore. So completely satisfied. The man had stamina. But he also had reason. Stopping their activities meant his mind would kick in again and the pain would return. And she couldn't allow that, not when she could stave it off. The night had been even more astounding than she'd let her imagination hope. He'd used her, true, but it was at her prompting. So who was she to complain. He had touched every inch of her and it was well worth the wait. But something was missing.

She'd loved him the day they met, when he'd been ready to sacrifice himself for others. It was a part of the job, she surmised and it would explain the many regenerations he'd gone through. The incarnation she now saw was number 10, he'd told her. She doubted this one would last terribly long and perhaps that was his wish.

But oh, that first day when he'd kissed her to stall their pursuers, she fell.

Only, he was falling too. For a different reason and in a different direction. The pain. It took time for her to recognize it; the occasional coldness in his voice, the reserve that increased when they were between disasters. He could get quite animated when they were battling or discovering something new and she believed this was as close to the real Doctor as she was likely to see. It was only when the task was done that he withdrew inside himself, a trait she associated with emotional trauma. Still, he would not speak of it and she blamed the companion before her. The Doctor hid so much from her, confiding so little of his past. And even less of his emotional state. Martha loved the stories in the annals that she'd stumbled upon; the battles he'd fought, the tiny description of his unique physiology, the titles given to his legend. The Oncoming Storm, the Daleks called him. Tonight she knew the storm was not him, but the anguish within him. And it was taking him over.

When her mind was invaded, she was sure something was taking her over as well. The Tardis. It spoke within her for the first time with a simple message. Help him.

How, when he wouldn't talk to her? How, when he wouldn't acknowledge what hurt him? When he kept himself at such a distance, she wondered if anyone had ever gotten past his defenses. Martha had little to offer. Nothing that he would accept. The best new-age philosophies, ones she used in the medical profession, would sound like ramblings in an imaginary language when pitted against that pain. The only thing she actually possessed, here in this flying box, was her flesh. And therein lay another issue.

The Doctor never touched her with the same interest as he did everything else. So tactile, this alien. Though it was well-covered, she could detect the slightest cringe when she initiated any contact. He'd pull back, he'd turn away, he'd fiddle with any nearby object. What sensations would be evoked by those fingers? She had to know.

Therefore, it was settled. She would touch him tonight. She would drive out the demons in his head, at least for a time. Refusal wasn't an option. Only an opportunity was required.

Finding him in the observatory, Martha had approached with caution. The darkness here was suffocating and she knew why the Tardis had dispatched her. It wasn't the room that lent such black foreboding. It was him. Decision made, Martha had touched him, willing him to look at her. He declined. Expecting him to say he's fine and begin plotting their next destination, Martha remained where she was, blocking his retreat. The dismissal never came and she took advantage of the stillness of his lips. The Doctor tensed, tried to move away, but her words kept him there. _Let me take this from you. I can make you forget_. There must have been a secret code in that sentence she was unaware of because in the next moment, he kissed her back.

Coaxing him from the dark place, they ended up in her room, the only one she was sure she could find while he touched her this way. Such talented hands, such an agile tongue. His lean frame was so very beautiful, she prayed he wouldn't require regeneration anytime soon. Her body clung to him as though it alone were enough to keep him here. Martha, having been in control of the seduction, lost the lead when he entered her. No longer did she wait for him to change his mind. This was happening and God, it felt impossibly good. The pace was not slow and exploratory as she'd often fantasized. Not that she minded. It wasn't her goal… this time. She had to heal him and that meant letting him take what he needed. Which was hard and often. She spoke her desire in panting breaths and screamed several completions. But the Doctor was silent, as if words would break the spell Martha had cast over them tonight. And perhaps they would. Because something told her he'd speak the wrong name.

DRWHO

_What have I done?_ He berated his weakness for succumbing to her. She wasn't the one. But that one wasn't here, would never be here again. Was it so wrong for him to take what Martha so freely offered? Wasn't it likely Rose had turned to Mickey after their parting? Leaning on the Tardis' center console for support, he realized he was rationalizing his actions where there was no acceptable explanation. His ship sent him message after message. She'd been quiet earlier, when he'd been with…

_Why did you let me do this?_ He demanded in sudden anger but the Tardis only sighed. But when he entertained brief thoughts of dumping Martha back on Earth, the ship scolded him thoroughly. The ship told him he must get past Rose as he had Sarah Jane. As he had with the others. He mustn't allow her to become a pedestal-version of herself. Rose was not to be worshipped and he must let Martha help him. He must.

Slamming his hand down on the console, he used the one argument he'd sworn to never again use against her. _If you'd have let me die with my people like I asked, none of this… _

The ship shuddered so violently in protest, he nearly lost his balance. Holding onto the closest lever, the Doctor righted himself then hung his head, shrinking into himself in shame. He hadn't meant to hurt her, the one constant in his life. _Forgive me_, he whispered and as he caressed her sensors, he felt her run soothing waves through his battered mind.

It shouldn't have surprised him when Martha came running into the room, but he managed to secure some vestige of the mask before she got a good look at him. He assured her it was only turbulence and that they'd be landing momentarily. She nodded and left to dress properly for an adventure and he watched her depart. Somewhere inside he felt a hint of gratitude but quickly tamped it down. He forbade himself from becoming attached from this one; indifference was the only means to ensure that tonight did not happen again.


	2. Chapter 2

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**Vestiges of the Mask (Part 2)**

The Doctor laid completely still, limbs entwined with those of an exhausted Martha. His companion indeed. He supposed he must call her his lover now. It didn't compare to the things he called himself tonight. The first time had been a mistake, a seduction he didn't seek or initiate. That could be forgiven. But now?

Tonight he'd walked in on her, quite by mistake and there she lay, sprawled on her bed as if expecting him. Her solo performance was exquisite. But he should have fled. Rather, he'd responded so violently to her self-gratifying display, this time craving so much more. Because he knew how it would feel. And a little knowledge was oh so dangerous.

He'd taken an active role, pleasuring her by choice. After she'd returned the favor, they'd barely rested before the memories came crashing back and he had to have her again. Her body kept the destructive thoughts at bay, as long as they engaged in such intense physical release. Time and again, Martha had reached a point of collapse, breathless and nearly battered by his treatment. Only a fleeting thought was given to how fragile humans are, how careful he should be. Until she'd wake and begin touching him again. The woman's hands were terribly skilled and confident, enticing him with ease. Hadn't she promised as much? And his arousal seemed as perpetual as hers.

What was he supposed to do now? He didn't love her. Couldn't even say he liked her. They hadn't gotten as far as becoming friends, having skipped that part almost entirely. In truth, he simply needed what she gave him. Her body. A shell to bury himself in whenever the darkness became too much. He couldn't control the want and she didn't help matters by being so damned willing.

Rose would hate him for this, would feel betrayed that he could be so intimate with someone he barely knew, yet had denied them the chance. Rose had been willing, too. He had no doubt they could have easily overstepped the boundary he'd set for them. But he'd believed it would only make losing her that much harder. The Doctor knew better now, though. Regret was far worse than attachment. And he had no way to fix it.

Such lamenting only led to a resurgent need to satisfy this new compulsion and when Martha stirred, his fingers began to stroke her again. Just once more, he vowed. And once more, he lied.

It was merely an addiction. Not to her but to what her body could do. And the realization was becoming painful. At first, Martha thought she could handle it. After all, she wanted him and this was the only form of contact she'd been able to coax from him. This was supposed to lead to something more, something more relational. A bit of domesticity in the cold of space.

It was her fault, really. The seduction was her idea and she chose to continue it night after night. Appearing in his room with plans to manipulate him into bed. She'd used a variety of tactics whenever he seemed hesitant. Last night, she'd resorted to an 'accidental' performance' before him. What man could resist such a display? And she'd won yet again. But the victories were proving hollow. Because it changed nothing.

Perhaps she could have been anyone. Her body could have taken any form, her face was irrelevant. It was the act he needed. The mind-numbing passion distracted him. It did nothing to heal him or to bring them closer. In the light of day, they were still unfamiliar to one another. In the dark of night, he never came to her of his own accord. It was always Martha that sought him out or ambushed him; had to work for the contact he allowed, had to force the initial craving out of him. But she couldn't stop.

Because then her purpose here would end and the Doctor would simply dispose of her. She couldn't let that happen. Because she craved him too.

It occurs to her now that perhaps a new tactic should be employed. Maybe it was time to step back. Let their adventures continue as before, let him work things out without her physical aid, let him seek her out. Though it meant an end to their activities, Martha considered the possibility that becoming actual acquaintances, as nature usually intended, might net her deeper results. It was time they got to know each other in a more civilized manner. This wanton self was beginning to scare her, this person that she wasn't. Denying him could ruin them both but the opposite was already seeing to that. When the mirror gave her a stranger's profile this morning, she felt the final blow. And the internal warning was heeded.

The Doctor may well send her home. That was the slice of fear this gamble was served with. The chance would simply have to be taken. Because there was so much more behind his mask. And though she wanted to find the true face beneath, her own mask was growing frightening. Calling upon the impartiality of a medical professional, Martha took the first steps down the hall to seek the Doctor. And exhume the vestige of her dignity.


End file.
